


Double cross purposes

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A secret operation has gone wrong and Mycroft needs someone to pin the blame on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [lucoluco](http://lucoloco.livejournal.com/)

  
  
**Friday 11 th December 2009**

One of the worst aspects of being officially employed by the Department for Business, Innovation and Skills, Mycroft considered, was that not only did he sometimes have to turn up and pretend he worked there, he also had to attend their official functions. That was how he had ended up at the Innovation Infrastructure Partners Christmas dinner, fending off the inquisitiveness of some tedious woman from the Design Council, all gold fingernails and determination.

"So will you be staying in London for Christmas, Mycroft, or are you travelling somewhere?" she demanded cheerfully.

Unfortunately, Mycroft Holmes of the BIS did not know twenty-three different methods of resisting interrogation. He was instead dull, but helpful.

"I'll be going down to Sussex to spend a few days with my mother and brother," he said. "All very quiet, of course."

"Your mother's still alive? I do adore old ladies at Christmas, they're so festive," Ms Smythe announced. "And are you close to your brother? I'm an only child myself, so I'm fascinated by siblings."

"Not particularly close," Mycroft said cautiously. "Sherlock's seven years younger, so–"

"Sherlock?" she interrupted. "You don't mean to say your brother is Sherlock Holmes?"

"You know him?"

"Of course I do. Everyone at the Design Council does, after the Six Napoleons affair."

"The Six Napoleons?" Mycroft said, cautiously.

"Someone broke into our offices a few years ago, stole some prototype animated mannequins of Napoleon one of our staff was advising on. Your brother managed to get them back before they were cloned by the Koreans. We can't let them get ahead of us on display technology, can we?"

"I suppose not," Mycroft said awkwardly. "I didn't realise, erm, I'm afraid I don't really know anything about my brother's work as a detective."

"You don't?" Ms Smythe said incredulously. "Oh, I was hoping you could give me the inside story on him, dish the dirt. I've followed his career ever since that case. He's such a glamorous figure, isn't he?"

She looked guilelessly at Mycroft and the temptation was almost overwhelming to say: _You're impressed by Sherlock's little tricks, are you, Ms Smythe? What would you say if you knew that it's because of me that you are not currently running shrieking through the radioactive ruins of central London? Or that this afternoon I will be discussing with a four-star general the CIA's latest plan to roll up a network of Pakistani terrorists?_  He bit his lip. Operation Cobra was enough of a disaster area already without getting the Design Council involved. He must focus. Ms Smythe had just said something else, hadn't she?

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't catch your last question."

"Could you at least let me know who Sherlock's tailor is?" she said firmly. "He has a very distinctive style and I'm wondering whether we might be able to use him for promotional purposes."

***

 _There is a reason why I don't know about Sherlock's cases_ , Mycroft told himself, as he sat sulkily in the back of a car on his way to Heathrow. _A good reason. I have more important matters to deal with. And besides, it would only encourage him..._

That had been the excuse – the reason – at the start. Sherlock had announced he was going to become a detective two days after turning down Mycroft's offer of a post with the Service. It was clearly an attempt by Sherlock to show off, flaunt his analytical abilities in Mycroft's face. Mycroft's long experience with his brother told him that such plays for attention were better ignored. Show no interest in what Sherlock was doing and his little game would soon lose its thrill.

But it hadn't this time, had it? Sherlock had stuck with being a detective, thrived at it. Mycroft knew that much. He'd been doing it for...goodness, it was almost five years now, wasn't it? Mycroft had a sudden vision of how his own refusal to engage with Sherlock's cases must look to an outsider, like the tediously sparkly Ms Smyth. Not as a rational decision on priorities and strategy, but as something petty, mean-spirited on Mycroft's part, a refusal to admire Sherlock's successes. Perhaps he should now moderate his position, he thought, read the reports generated about his own brother, rather than rely on others to inform him that he was still clean and solvent. Maybe even find out a little more about his interests and the people he worked with.

**Tuesday 19 th January 2010**

The Minister – who was not, of course, from the Department for Business, Innovation and Skills – was furious, as Mycroft had expected.

"We need to get to the bottom of this!" the man yelled yet again.

Good thing the club has soundproofing, Mycroft thought. "In what way?" he replied cautiously.

"We need to find out why your lot mucked up Operation Cobra so badly."

The fact that it was a deeply unrealistic plan in the first place might have a little to do with it. That bit, at least, was not the Service's fault.

"The Americans are livid," the Minister went on. Mycroft didn't bother explaining that it was unlikely they were actually grey-tinged.  "They're talking about stopping information-sharing if we're just leaking all the time."

It was almost certainly the CIA who was at fault on this occasion, but Mycroft wasn't certain yet if Agent Matheson was a criminal or merely criminally careless.

"I could perhaps have a word with the Americans," he said smoothly.

"You know what they're saying?" the Minister went on, his floridly handsome face staring up at Mycroft, "They're suggesting that there's a mole, a traitor in the Service at the highest level. I am not ignoring those kind of allegations. They must be investigated by someone the Joint Intelligence Committee can trust, not just given the normal whitewash."

"Such an investigation would be _inadvisable_ ," Mycroft replied.

"Why? Afraid of what we might find?"

Any investigation of the Service's top brass would no doubt uncover that Hil Baydon had been bought by the Chinese. It would probably miss, however, that Mycroft had bought him back, and he was now feeding the PRC with a beautiful diet of dubious intel. Mycroft didn't want that little arrangement disrupted just yet. Unfortunately, the Minister was neither an adulterer, nor corrupt, which eliminated some possible moves. Since he was simply a sanctimonious prick, it was time to fall back to plan B.

"It would be very costly," Mycroft said. "And the Treasury would be particularly irate if, or indeed when, it turned out it wasn't the Service that did the leaking after all."

"What do you mean?"

"We strongly suspect the leak came from the Metropolitan Police. As you know, they became involved tangentially in Operation Cobra when Gul Khan was murdered in Whitechapel. We closed down their investigations, of course, but perhaps not quite quickly enough. And it might fit with some of our other suspicions."

"About the Met?" the Minister said, suddenly sounding more positive. The police weren't part of his ministerial responsibilities, after all.

"We have believed for a while that there are members of their Criminal Investigation Department selling information on operations to interested parties. We'd presumed it was just for domestic consumption, but possibly someone's got more ambitious. Under the circumstances, the time might be ripe to see if the rumours about police corruption are true."

"I need something definite," said the Minister. "And soon."

And cheap, and politically convenient, Mycroft thought. "A month, perhaps?" he said. "If you're happy with us putting some other projects on the back burner."

"Two weeks."

"In three weeks," Mycroft said, "I'll have something concrete to give you." He hoped he wasn't being rash, but he could surely find the American evidence much sooner than that. Especially with the helpful smokescreen of alleged dubious goings-on at Scotland Yard.

***

Miss Murchison from IT Angels was understandably cautious.

"I thought you _were_ the CIA, Mycroft. So why do you need us to hack into their network?"

"South Asian Analysis have been rather hostile to me, since I pointed out that they might learn something from the failures and successes of the Raj. It seems to have become a point of principle with them to sideline my contacts."

"It's not going to be easy," she protested, her plain face dogged. "They've hardened up their systems a lot recently, with all the hacking."

"Which is why I've come to your firm. The best social engineering service on the planet, so you always claim."

"Well, we have got a new woman who might be just what you want. Nirupa Devi. Looks like a princess and can install a rootkit faster than you'd believe possible. Ideal nerd bait. But two weeks is still a very tight timetable."

"The rewards will be substantial," Mycroft said, "and if there's _anything_ else you need, you can come to me day or night."

"This is off the Service's books, is it? Do I report to your assistant?"

"You'll need to contact me via her, but I don't want even Anthea suspecting yet that I'm investigating the Americans. But don't worry about my end of it. Just get your Angels flying round the CIA and see what sins they uncover."

**Wednesday 20 th January 2010**

"There are five possible people in the Met who could have leaked information about Operation Cobra," Bland informed Mycroft the next day. "I've compiled some preliminary facts about them."

"Good," Mycroft smiled encouragingly. "Any immediate red lights?" He had to hope that they weren't all whiter than white, that there was at least one with murky spots to act as distraction.

"The two uniformed officers who found Khan are unlikely," Bland said, sliding two files across the table to Mycroft. "Motte's keen and green and wouldn't want to put a foot wrong. Bailey's an old rascal, but I severely doubt she has any more than small time criminal contacts."

"Who are the other three?"

"The CID team who started the investigation. They were pulled off it very quickly, but that may just have got them suspicious. The first one is DC Stanley Hopkins." Bland handed the file over, with a photo on the front of a young, thick-necked, earnest-looking blond.

"I'm not sure he can find his own arse yet," said Bland, "let alone work out how to sell secrets to a terrorist organisation. The second one is his boss, DI Gregory Lestrade."

Lestrade's photo, Mycroft noted, showed a good-looking, dark-eyed man with a direct, confident gaze.

"Late forties and he's not been promoted to chief inspector," Bland said. "Which makes it likely he's either incompetent or dodgy."

"The name sounds familiar," Mycroft said, and then stopped. The man had worked with Sherlock, hadn't he? Despite his determination to ignore Sherlock's crime-solving activities, he definitely remembered some mentions of "that imbecile Lestrade" by his brother. No wonder the poor man's hair was going grey. Though it did rather suit him.

"I suspect if he is crooked, my brother would have pointed it out loudly and conspicuously by now," he said. "Who's our last potential leaker?"

"Lestrade's right-hand woman, DS Sally Donovan. Now _she_ might be worth a closer look at." Bland's vast, slab-like face finally showed some animation.

"Why do you think so?"

"Bright, but clearly has an attitude problem; she has a series of warnings on her file for insubordination. Also, one odd thing."

"Which is?"

"It says on her file that she's got a degree from Cambridge. What are the chances of a woman from Stoke Newington ending up there?" Bland banged the file onto the table, and Sally Donovan's face stared defiantly up at Mycroft. Beautiful and black. It certainly was unusual if she'd made it to Cambridge. She'd be as good a distraction as any, thought Mycroft.

"Right," he said, "I want level 2 background checks on Motte, Bailey, Hopkins and Lestrade. Let's make sure there are no obvious weaknesses."

"And Donovan?" Bland asked.

"Level 3 checks," Mycroft replied. "I want to know all about _her_."

**Thursday 21 st January 2010**

"So what have you got?" the Minister demanded.

"An anomaly," Mycroft said. "An outsider who got a place in two rather traditional systems. First Cambridge University and then the police service."

"Oh well, Cambridge let anyone in, don't they?" the Minister sneered.

You could take a man out of Magdalen, but not Magdalen out of the man, Mycroft thought, but all he said was:  "We have no evidence against Ms Donovan yet, but we consider she bears investigating."

"If she's the leaker, you'd better damn well bring me her balls on a plate!" the Minister insisted. "Or whatever the female equivalent is. I need answers for the Americans."

"Oh, they'll have answers," said Mycroft smoothly. "Don't worry. Any skeletons in Sergeant Donovan's cupboards won't stay hidden for very long."

**Monday 25 th January 2010**

For an arbitrarily chosen distraction, Sally Donovan was turning out to be ideal material for Operation Squid, Mycroft thought with satisfaction, as he sat in the meeting room and listened to his subordinates come up with ever more convoluted reasons for why she was a traitor. Even though she wasn't one, of course.

"Dates back to childhood," Henry Tinker drawled, leaning back in his chair. "Her father walked out when she was five, her mother raises her and her siblings alone. Ray Donovan betrayed the young Sally, twenty-five years later she betrays the whole white establishment in revenge."

"She doesn't need father issues to get pissed off about racism and sexism," Khadija Moosvi countered sardonically. "She hits a glass ceiling at the Met, knows her face doesn't fit, starts looking round for someone who does appreciate her. Easy target for a clever agent."

"It's about cold, hard cash," Sam Wood insisted, with a scowl on his heavy face. "She has expensive tastes. She saw a chance to make some easy money and she took it."

"The money," Ros Jones said, "is going to fund Dr James Anderson's divorce. Which, God knows, will be happening fairly soon, if they aren't more careful. Sally does have remarkably poor judgement about men, doesn't she?"  She smiled at Mycroft, all lip gloss and bitchiness.

"Workplace romances do not always strike the outsider as rational," Mycroft replied, carefully directing his gaze at Sam Wood, the only one of the analysis team who had not recently had an in-house sexual encounter. "Though I must say I do rather agree with your assessment." If Sally Donovan had to fall for a colleague, why on earth had she not chosen Lestrade, who was a far more attractive proposition? Perhaps because sleeping with her boss might cause difficulties. But then, any emotional entanglement brought its own risks. Better, after all, to stay detached.

He abruptly realised that the one person so far silent was about to speak.

"You know," Toby Westerhaus announced earnestly, "We could be looking at this completely the wrong way." Mycroft sighed inwardly and waited. Toby was one of the Cold War warriors they still hadn't managed to put out to grass.

"The thing is," Westerhaus went on, "how do we know that this woman's Donovan at all?"

"What?" Mycroft demanded.

"Have we considered the possibility of a ringer?" Westerhaus' face had lit up now. "She could have been replaced when she went to Cambridge. Girl from Hackney disappears, new girl takes her place at Trinity Hall. Back in the late Seventies there were a lot of African students in Moscow. This woman could easily be the daughter of one of those and a Russki. Who'd suspect her of really being KGB?"

"Who indeed?" Mycroft said. "Other than possibly her family, friends and school teachers. But rest assured, when I go to Cambridge, I will investigate the possibility."

**Tuesday 26 th January 2010**

He'd been wanting a trip back to Cambridge, and this gave him the ideal excuse. And Sally's old tutor, a burly middle-aged Dutchwoman called Carin van Zon, was surprisingly helpful.

"Of course I remember Sally Donovan, Mr Holmes," she said, as they sat in the chilly gardens and looked out at the Cam. "I had to fight like hell to get the college to admit her. They say they want diversity, but then they get a black candidate from a poor area and suddenly they're panicking she's not good enough."

"And you thought she was?"

"She had a lot of determination and she was well-prepared for the interview. I think there was some teacher at her school who had taken a particular interest in her, got her thinking. Broadened her horizons beyond Hackney. I reckoned she'd be more interesting to teach than yet another public school boy. Anthropology always benefits from a diversity of views, an outsider's perspective. So I fought her corner and won."

"How did she find college life?" Mycroft asked.

"Oh, a bit of a shock, of course. Too many petty rules in college, too many petty people. She struggled with her essays for a while, and I think there were a few racist comments thrown her way. Couldn't have been easy, but she adapted, made friends, got involved with college life. Did she tell you about her rowing when she was here, Mr Holmes?"

"Rowing?"

"You probably didn't believe her, did you, she's so tiny. And yes, she was really too small for the rowing itself. But she was so keen, so do you know what they did with her?" Her broad face cracked into a grin. "They made her a cox, and she ended up coxing the men's first eight. Eight hulking men and Sally telling them what to do. That was good to see. Sally Donovan, rowing and arguing. Rowing and rowing, you might say."

"In what way?"

"Any time the Junior Common Room had a dispute, you could be sure Sally would be involved. She wanted to get her voice heard, and good for her. Not the most academic student I had, but I've never regretted picking Sally."

"After graduating, she went off to join the police, didn't she? Did that surprise you?"

"At first, but I suppose it made sense. She wanted to go back to London, her roots, her own community, give something back. Too impatient to be a teacher, too honest to be a politician. And she's doing well, I gather. Well, she must be, since you're here."

Mycroft gave her a quizzical glance.

"Mr Holmes," she said, grinning at him again. "You're an important man, a big chief. I've seen your type from New Guinea to New York. You want Sally for some special job, don't you? What's she going to be doing? Guarding the Queen? Do you want her for the Special Branch or whatever it's called now?"

"I'm afraid I can't discuss why I'm here," he said hastily.

"Yes, well, whatever the job is, she'll do it well. She's a good girl, Sally. Ready for anything. I can recommend her highly to you. But one thing, Mr Holmes," she added, as she stood up, slightly breathlessly, to shake his hand. "I'm sure you're a very clever man, as well as an important one. But don't underestimate Sally. A lot of clever men in Cambridge did."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally Donovan is proving a useful distraction from the Service's real mole. But things are getting a little too personal for Mycroft now.

**Thursday 28 th January 2010**

Mycroft realised the scale of his mistake as he watched the Met's press conference. A junior minister dead, talk of serial suicides, and at the heart of the investigations, was a woman who ever increasing numbers of people believed was crooked. It was hardly surprising that he got a phone call from the Minister half an hour later.

"Why are we letting this Donovan woman anywhere near the case?" the angry voice demanded. "I mean, for all we know, she could be the murderer."

"There isn't a murderer," Mycroft replied wearily. "As DI Lestrade said, they are all suicides, the poison was self-administered." Lestrade had looked weary, miserable, like a man being ground down by the whole thing. Good thing he didn't know how much worse it might be about to get.

"Donovan's up to something, she must be," the Minister said. "You're not taking this matter seriously enough, Mycroft."

"Minister, I have a team of my people working on this, but if we move prematurely we may compromise the operation. She isn't working alone, we suspect."

"I've a good mind to get a few questions asked in the House about Davenport's suicide."

"Oh, I wouldn't advise _that_ ," Mycroft replied, with sudden irritation. "You hardly want any discussion about how some of your colleagues received the news of Ms Davenport's demise, do you? There are people who heard the 'Ding-dong, the witch is dead' comment in the Commons canteen, even if they've been encouraged to keep quiet. We really don't want the British public to be reminded of how much of an old boys' club Parliament still is, do we?"

"I need results!" the Minister yelled. "And soon. You just seem to be sitting on your backside."

 _Better than talking out of it,_ Mycroft thought. "I'll have something for you very soon," he said.

"Make sure you do, before she bumps off any more of us."

***

"I need your advice," Mycroft said to Anthea, once the Minister had finally got off the line. "Or rather your expert opinion. If I explore Sergeant Donovan's finances, am I going to find anything disreputable? Do you think, for example, that she's living beyond her means?"

"No," said Anthea, after a moment's thought. "She likes clothes, but she wears high-street stuff, not designer gear. Her mobile's nothing fancy and she's too busy with her work to socialise much. Besides, if she'd wanted money, she'd have become a banker, not a policewoman."

"Is petty fiddling likely, though?"

"I've been reading the reports on DI Lestrade," Anthea said, "and he seems to be whiter than white where money's concerned. Can't see him having anyone on his team whom he couldn't trust. In fact, I'm finding it very hard to believe there are any secrets in her life at all, other than Anderson." She looked shrewdly at Mycroft. "So why are we investigating her?"

"For Operation Squid, you mean?" Mycroft said, smiling, and waited for Anthea to join the dots. A moment's hesitation and then she smiled her perfect smile back at him.

"The squid pumps out ink to fool an attacker. Sally Donovan's camouflage for your interest in someone else. That's clever, sir."

"I thought so," Mycroft replied, sighing. "But I may be going to wreck her career, which would not be...ideal."

"We can look after her, sir, if necessary. I'm sure we could find a niche for her somewhere."

"Oh yes, but I do feel that as a recruitment ad, 'Come and work for us because no-one will have you now' lacks a little _finesse_. I'm starting to feel I should warn the woman what's coming. If this serial suicide business gets any worse, someone is going to finger her, I feel sure of it. Unless...I suppose there's no hope that the police will actually be able to solve the matter, is there?"

"They're baffled."

"Not a new situation. The police have many admirable qualities, but they lack true imagination. The obvious question is how the killer is coercing the victims into suicide. It can't be blackmail: he or she doesn't have time for it. One meeting with the victim and they immediately kill themselves. What do the police normally do when they're stumped?"

"What they _should_ do is call in your brother," Anthea said.

"Are you a fan of his as well, now?" Mycroft protested. "Sherlock is wasting his formidable talents on the squalid little crimes of squalid little people when he could be looking after his country's interests."

"With respect, it's surely not in the country's interest for junior ministers to be committing suicide."

"I suppose the mass self-immolation of the government would be distressing," Mycroft said, "though one can't help feel the United Kingdom would run more smoothly as a result. So do the police actually request my brother's help? I thought Sherlock's _modus operandi_ was simply to hang around at crime scenes making clever suggestions till someone overheard him."

"He used to do that," Anthea said, "but Lestrade took him in hand." Mycroft found himself eying her slightly nervously. If only he'd paid proper attention to Sherlock's activities earlier, he'd have a better idea what to do now. Then he made an abrupt decision.

"I need to get hold of Sherlock," he said. "Ask him to take the case."

"Are you sure, sir?"

He nodded.

"It might be tricky," Anthea said. "Sherlock's having problems at Montague Street again."

Honestly, it was quite enough work for one man sorting out his brother's domestic life, Mycroft thought, without having to worry about his work activities. "I understood we'd bribed Mr Melas sufficiently."

"There's been another incident," Anthea replied. "Mr Melas told me that not even our subsidies made up for the damage to his floorboards. I don't know when Sherlock's being evicted, but in an emergency, we could put him in the safe house in Borehamwood."

"Which would promptly be converted into an extremely unsafe house. No, Sherlock can probably find one of his dubious friends to house him. I could do without him being distracted, however, if you think he might be able to sort out this case."

 **Friday 29 th January 2010**

There was still no word from Miss Murchison and a thin trickle of worry was starting to seep into Mycroft. By lunchtime, when he hadn't heard from her or Sherlock, it was becoming a flood. He couldn't stall the Minister for much longer, he knew. Forty-eight hours at the most and then he either had to let him have Sally's head or concede an enquiry into the Service.

There was no choice, of course. Sally Donovan wouldn't be the first innocent to be sacrificed to protect a double agent and she wouldn't be the last. It wasn't even as if she was going to lose her life. Just her job and her pension, which could be remedied. And her reputation, which was harder to fix. Her dismissal was bound to get out to the press, and she was an attractive woman. The tabloids would be eager to root out every past misdemeanour of hers, especially details of her sex life.

He'd got too close to the matter, Mycroft told himself firmly. He'd let himself start to think of Sally Donovan as a real person, not just a weapon. But it was more than that, wasn't it? She's spent her life being screwed over by white men and it was going to happen again. It was undoubtedly rash, but he owed her something. If – when – it became necessary to expose her, he should at least warn her in person, offer her protection. Maybe even explain to her that she was only being treated like this for the good of the state.

***

"I've finally tracked down Sherlock," Anthea said, and Mycroft felt his spirits lift for a moment. Then he remembered he was going to have to grovel to his brother.

"Decided you're interested in my petty little cases after all?" Sherlock's voice on the phone was sardonic. "What's brought this on?"  
Mycroft forced the words out.  "I need your help."

"The answer's no. Whatever the question is."

"These serial suicides–"

"Oh I see," Sherlock sneered. "A junior minister has killed herself and suddenly you're interested in people dying. People who matter dying, I mean. Not just ordinary people suffering."

"Don't pretend you care about the victims," Mycroft said, his jaw clenching in the way his dentist hated. "It's the puzzle that interests you, isn't it?"

"I'm trying to get involved with the serial suicides, as it happens. But Lestrade's being stubborn. The man's an idiot."

Judging by the press conference, he was an intelligent and attractive man, Mycroft thought, but he didn't say anything. If he could just be patient...

"If I do take the case," Sherlock said abruptly, "I need a favour from you in return."

"Of course," Mycroft said wearily. "I'll see what I can do about another flat–"

"Oh, that's solved," Sherlock said, and Mycroft could almost hear the smirk in his voice. "But I think I've found a flatmate and I presume you'll feel your normal need to vet him."

"There have been occasions...you know what happened with Victor Trevor."

"I was younger and more inexperienced then," Sherlock retorted. "Anyhow, if you are going to vet him, get on with it. I don't want to get the man used to my domestic habits and then find out he's only got acquainated with me in order to facilitate an attack on you."

"I'll put someone onto it immediately," said Mycroft. "What's your unfortunate flatmate's name?"

"Dr John Watson, recently returned from military service in Afghanistan. Trained at Barts, has an alcoholic brother called Harry. If you need more details than that–"

"No, we'll find him. Well, if he's just back from a war zone, he'll doubtless find sharing a flat with you familiar. Just try not to poison him accidentally. And solve those suicides, please," Mycroft added. "A woman's reputation depends on it."

 **Saturday 30 th January 2010**

John Watson looked promising, at least on paper – any flatmate of Sherlock's would doubtless end up with psychological problems, so it hardly mattered if he already had some – which was a good start to the day. On the other hand, another corpse was reported mid-afternoon, which immediately soured Mycroft's mood. Maybe the public won't hear about it till Monday, he thought, but he wasn't surprised when the Minister rang a couple of hours later. Obviously, even if the Met hadn't been leaking before, it was now, like a ship about to sink.

"I'm going to the PM," the Minister said. "He _has_ to know what's happening. It's not just this Donovan woman, is it? It's something bigger. How do I even know I can trust you any more, Mycroft?" From the sounds in the background, he was probably attending a dog show. Shame he couldn't get torn to pieces by a pack of hounds, Mycroft thought. That would be handy right now. He had a sudden inspiration.

"We're bringing them in this weekend," he said. "You're right, it's a big network. I think I've finally got a lead into their military operations, via an ex-army officer, name of Watson. And I'll talk to Donovan myself tonight."

"Doing your own fieldwork now, Mycroft? I thought nothing short of World War Three could drag you from your desk." A hint of cheerfulness was creeping into the Minister's voice, now that someone else's weekend was also being wrecked.

"This needs my personal attention," Mycroft replied. "There may...it is possible that some junior agents have been turned." Some heads might have to roll even from his own staff, just not the right ones, as usual. Innocent scapegoats, shunted out, shunted sideways. Sent to _Brixton_. Was he losing control, Mycroft suddenly wondered. "I want the matter settled as much as you, Minister," he went on, "but do you really want to explain to the PM that you blew our operation prematurely?"

"When is it going to be resolved?"

"Soon," he lied, and the Minister grumbled and agreed to wait till after the weekend to talk to the PM.

Mycroft sat at his desk, after the call had finished, and realised he was breathing slightly too fast. He had to calm himself, think and not just react. Get ahead of the game. He called Anthea into the office.

"We need to pick up John Watson and Sally Donovan and talk to them," he told her. "But separately, not together."

"Is that wise, sir?" Anthea asked. She didn't often question his judgement, but he listened to her when she did. There was a razor-sharp brain beneath that decorative facade.

"We need all the decoys we can get," he said. "The Minister wants action, he won't worry too much who gets accused of what. Donovan is our first human sacrifice. Dr Watson may have to be the second line of defence, and from then on we're choosing the Service's weakest links to throw to the wolves."

"But do we need to talk to them before we set them up?" she asked. A good practical question, he was relieved to hear.

"I want to know how Dr Watson reacts under pressure. If he's tough enough to put up a fight, protest his innocence when he's accused of treachery, that could buy us time. We might still be able to pin something on the real mole. As for Donovan – I've got her into this mess. I should at least explain to her why she has been chosen to have her life wrecked."

"I'll get to work on the pick-ups," said Anthea. "But it may not be easy. We can't easily pull Donovan away from her colleagues without someone getting suspicious. Unless you're willing to use a distress call."

 _Your mother has been seriously injured in a car-crash. Please come with me immediately if you want to see her alive_. It was an old trick. Sally Donovan's mother was called Rebecca, a Pentecostal matriarch who, even in the transcripts, had reminded Mycroft oddly of his own formidable mother. He didn't...he didn't want, even falsely, to kill the woman off.

"No," he said. "There must be some point at which we can corner her without that, if we keep our eyes open. What about Dr Watson?" Another innocent to be crushed to powder, although at least he sounded like a man looking for trouble in the first place.

"He's supposed to be meeting your brother at seven p.m. to see the flat. If we pick him up before, Sherlock may come round and protest about us scaring him off."

"Right. Well, in that case, we've got time to arrange something impressive for him, and then we'll go round to Sally Donovan's flat when she goes off duty. I presume she does so occasionally."

"She may not...she may go to someone's else house," Anthea pointed out.

"We'll deal with that problem when we come to it. But I think for John Watson, a little bit of theatricality may be called for. He needs to get used to it, if he's working with Sherlock."

"I thought he might be about to get sent to prison for treason," Anthea said.

"Oh, I'm sure we can get him off on a technicality," Mycroft replied. "And _Sherlock_ will hardly worry about any criminality in his background, he knows the most appalling characters. That bit, at least, should be straightforward." 

***

John Watson turned out to be small and tough and unimpressed at being abducted, which were probably all useful traits in any friend of Sherlock. And also not prepared to be bribed, which meant they might have to plant evidence on him as well. Mycroft hoped it wouldn't come to that: yet another piece of collateral damage to add to the list. Nicky Pitch had been sent off that afternoon to break into Sally's flat and leave the passbook that would be used to incriminate her.

"Nicky says that Hackney's sorted," Anthea reported on her return from Baker Street. "So we can accuse Sergeant Donovan of corruption whenever we need to."

"Good," he said. "Any word on what Sherlock's doing? Is he going to solve the case?"

"He's taken Dr Watson out to dinner, according to the last update."

"That hardly sounds promising. In that case, we arrange an encounter with Sally Donovan as soon as possible, tell her she's been framed and offer her a place in a safe house with immediate effect."

Once Anthea had headed off to update the surveillance team in person, Mycroft pulled out his phone and checked his e-mails for the tenth time in less than an hour. If only he could get something from IT Angels that implicated Matheson. But things never happened as conveniently as that in real life, did they?

As he went back to his desk he realised he was once again spending Saturday evening at work, like the sad individual he was. Not that it mattered. There was nowhere else he needed to be, and at least here he had a role to play. Just unfortunate that tonight it was the role of executioner, as soon as Anthea got her hands on Donovan.

*** 

The first text from Anthea came twenty-five minutes later and soon there was a regular flow of them:

 _Subject no longer at Lauriston Gardens but location unknown. Somehow our watchers lost her. Will order sweeps of the area._

 _How hard can it be to keep track of one police officer? Our systems definitely need an overhaul. Will put on Monday's to do list._

 _Subject finally located back at NSY. Looks like they're planning a late-night raid._

 _They're raiding 221B!_

 _Still at 221B and Sherlock and John are back. I'll let you know who gets arrested._

 _No-one arrested. Sherlock went off in taxi, police left building soon after, subject departed with Lestrade. We are tailing._

 _Lestrade and Donovan are back at NSY. We can try and extract her, but might be conspicuous. Getting signal interception into place._

 _Phone call to NSY saying Sherlock's traced the serial killer, Lestrade and Donovan are onto it. Need to get location confirmed._

 _Location is Roland Kerr FE College, NW2. Will pick you up from office in 5 minutes if you still want to proceed with the pick-up._

***

Mycroft mistimed his arrival slightly – what were they all doing at an FE college, for goodness sake? – and ran into Sherlock and Dr Watson leaving the scene. Though the latter appeared not as perturbed as you might expect from learning that his new flatmate's brother was the British government, or whatever ludicrous and libellous comments it was that Sherlock made. Indeed the man seemed positively chirpy; obviously impressed by Sherlock having solved the case. Mycroft still wasn't quite sure what had happened: something to ask Sergeant Donovan about.

He supposed he had no pressing reason now to encounter the woman; if the serial killer had been caught, they had a breathing space before needing to throw her to the wolves. But he'd spent ten days finding out all about her: it'd be interesting to talk to Sally Donovan herself.

She was smaller than she expected, but with the same no-nonsense beauty as in her photos. And when he strolled up to her, she looked him up and down from his carefully cut hair to his handmade shoes and asked, in an accent that was pure Cockney: "Who are you and what do you want?"

"I need to ask you some questions about the case," he replied.

"Oh you do, do you?" she said. "And why do _I_ need to answer them?" He wondered if the accent had softened when she was as Cambridge, or if she'd clung onto it more determinedly than ever.

"Do you not read your e-mails?" he replied confidently. "I'm from 3G Consultancy. We're doing a cost-benefit analysis for the Met on their operations and this is one of the cases that falls within our sampling timeframe."

"Cost-benefit analysis?" Sally replied, smiling mirthlessly up at him. "Do you know what happened here tonight? We caught a serial killer. The man who got shot a bit earlier had killed four people already. He'd have probably killed a sight more if we hadn't stopped him. So what cost do you put on a human life saved, Mr Consultant?"

"My name's Michael Hutchinson," he said, trying to sound officious. It was amazing how eager most people were to tell management consultants exactly how wrong they were about everything. "Obviously, we have to take into account quality life adjusted years – how much longer the victim might have lived – but there are always issues of on-costs as well. How long did this operation take, for example? Several months, I presume."

"We wrapped this one up very quickly," she said. "Well, as soon as we spotted the similar patterns in the three cases."

"So how did you manage that?" he asked.

"We ran a lot of background tracing, to try and establish a connection between the three victims, but when we found a fourth body, with an apparent suicide note, we also brought in a consultant we've used in the past."

"A consultant?"

"A consulting detective. But don't worry, he was a lot cheaper than you are. In fact, we got him for free."

"So what did he do?"

"Looked at the body, and then he was able to suggest a few leads. Later, we went round to his flat, because he'd found some new evidence. We were able to trick the killer into coming to the flat, Sherlock went off with him as a decoy, and the rest of the team tracked him here. Only the man got shot before we could arrest him. Some other crook must have been tailing him as well."

It was somehow reassuring just how unconvincing a liar she was; her honesty was instinctive, her untruths clearly uncomfortable to her.

"It sounds like your consulting detective did most of the work," he said, just to see how she'd react.

"No, it was a team effort," she said. "But, yeah, Sherlock Holmes is useful to have around sometimes. It's just that he's a–" She broke off.

"Antisocial and abrasive personality?" he said. "I've encountered him earlier in this assignment." He could see out of the corner of his eye someone coming over, looming behind him. "Don't worry, Sergeant Donovan, it sounds like this operation was conducted in a most cost-effective manner. If I could just ask–"

"If you have any further questions," an angry voice said in his ear, "I'll deal with them." Mycroft looked round and got a glare from DI Lestrade, who was somehow managing to loom even though he was several inches shorter than Mycroft. It was probably the sheer righteous fury of the man, flexing upwards unconsciously on his toes, as if he was planning to thump Mycroft.

"Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade went on, "can you go and check if we need the paramedics any more? I'll handle this." He walked round to stand firmly in front of Mycroft, folding his arms and looking up at him.

"So what the fuck do you think you're doing, asking questions of my officers?" he asked.

"I'm doing consultancy work for the Met," Mycroft said smoothly. "My card." He dug out the appropriate one from his wallet. It was amazing how often it came in handy. Lestrade took it and looked it at for a moment.

"Right, Mr Hutchison. Two things you should know. One is, if you have questions about a case, you come to me, rather than one of my subordinates. Second is," he said, as his strong hands began to tear up the card, "that you don't fool an old lag like me with such a ridiculous story. No bloody management consultant is still on the job late on Saturday night. So whoever you are, get the hell out of my crime scene, before I arrest you for wasting police time."

"I can explain–"

"I'm going to count to three," Lestrade said, "and then I'm going to arrest you, despite the additional paperwork and expense involved. One..."

The top button of Lestrade's shirt was unbuttoned, emphasising his sturdy neck. For a moment, Mycroft wondered what it would be like to be arrested. Would the DI actually put him in handcuffs, lead him off to some police van...

"Two," Lestrade announced. Mycroft focused on reality and turned and walked away.

It was silent in his flat when the car dropped him off. Far, far too silent.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How long can Mycroft keep his deceptions up before someone's life gets wrecked?

**Monday 1 st February 2010**

Mycroft scowled at the text he'd received:

 _Glad to see you taking an interest in my cases at last, but don't annoy Lestrade. That's my job. SH_

He dialled Sherlock's number with slightly shaky fingers.

"Good morning, Sherlock. What have you been up to now?"

"Do you really want to know, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice managed its familiar trick of modulating into utter suggestiveness.

"I meant, what's all this about me annoying Lestrade? How do you know about that?"

"He spotted you talking to me on Saturday night before you came and interfered with his crime scene. So he asked whether I knew who you were, or if not, what I could deduce. You really must have got up his nose."

"And?" Mycroft demanded.

"And I told him that you were a fussy, interfering civil servant who worried about his weight and had no sense of humour, and that I knew all that because you were my brother. But don't worry, Mycroft, I told him you worked for BIS, not your real employer. The Service's secrets remain safe with me."

"Thank you," said Mycroft and ended the call hastily, before he said anything he might regret.

***

That afternoon he got a ringside seat at Sally and Anderson's break-up, thanks to the hidden cameras at her flat. It was hardly Mycroft's idea of enjoyable viewing, but Sally was still officially the prime suspect for the Cobra foul-up, so he couldn't ignore the development. He just hoped he hadn't somehow precipitated it.

But it emerged, amid the shouting, that it was Sherlock's fault. He'd made some unsubtle comment about the relationship a few days ago, which had found its way back to Anderson's wife. Anderson had panicked, admitted everything to her, been given an ultimatum and panicked again. Mycroft was almost tempted, as he watched Sally rage at him, to phone her and tell her she was well shot of the spineless rat, she should find someone better. Instead, he sat and watched in his office and contemplated how he could use the event to the Service's advantage. Claim it was evidence of Sally's instability, poor judgement.

Whereas really it just confirmed that Sally was an ordinary, flawed human being, not some desiccated observer of humanity. A woman who always threw herself into the middle of things. What had it been like for her two days ago, going out on a drugs raid to 221B, turning up to a crime scene not knowing how many bodies she might find? Maybe it was the same urge for trouble, for seeking out the messy side of life, that had got her involved with Anderson in the first place.

He had to stop worrying about Operation Squid. It was all a terrible distraction from the things that really mattered. He must focus on the complex web of forces that needed balancing to ensure global stability. Not on the hapless flies who might occasionally get trapped in that web. The trap was set and there was no more to be done. At some point this week – he wasn't sure yet when he would need to do it – a discreet message would be sent to New Scotland Yard about a corrupt policewoman leaking secrets to foreign interests and Sally's world would collapse. But not today, he hoped, let her have a few days more.

 **Wednesday 3 rd February 2010**

"I've had a call from Diane at BIS," Anthea informed Mycroft mid-morning. "She says there's a crisis."

The disadvantage of having a PA – his _other_ PA – obtuse enough not to wonder why her boss was so seldom in the office was that she was hopeless at dealing with actual problems.

"What is it?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"Someone's turned up at the office, insisting he has to speak to you. Says he won't leave until he gets to talk to you in person. A Mr Dai Lester, she said."

Mycroft mentally ran the name through his Diane unscrambler to get an alarming message.

"DI Lestrade. Sherlock told him I work for the BIS, so he must have tracked me down. Right," he said, pulling on his coat. "I'll head over there now, see what the problem is. Can you please review the overnight tapes for Operation Squid, check that there have been no additional incidents?"

As he got in his car, he wondered how many more fallback positions he was going to have to use this time.

***

The DI sitting in Mycroft's other office was in a scruffy jumper and jeans today – off duty and does his own laundry, Mycroft thought – but the scowl on his face was all too familiar.

"Can I help you?" Mycroft said, as he went in and closed the door. "I'm sorry I've been so hard to track down. I've been tied up in a long meeting about alterations to copyright policy."

"Really?" said Lestrade, leaning back in his chair. "And no doubt, you've got your notes from the meeting all ready to show me. But you know what? I won't believe that, any more than I believe your lying business card or this counterfeit office."

"What do you mean?" Mycroft said, sitting down at his carefully cluttered desk.

"I'm a detective," Lestrade said, "and, whatever your brother may imply, not a complete ignoramus.  And there are a lot of things here that just aren't quite right. First thing," he added, sticking out his thumb, "is that you turn up at a crime scene in an out of the way bit of London late on a Saturday night, with a bogus excuse for why you were there. Second thing" – a sturdy index finger came out – "you have business cards with a false name on them. Third thing, you're supposed to be working here and yet you're impossible to get hold of. Fourth thing" – Lestrade's ring finger was longer than his index finger, wasn't there some scientific theory about that? – "you're Sherlock's brother."

"And?"

"If you've got a quarter of his brains, you wouldn't be stuck here as a mid-ranking civil servant, you'd be running the whole department, at the very least. And ordinary civil servants don't have fake IDs to hand, or cover stories. You're something big and secret, Mycroft Holmes, you must be."

"You have no reason to assume–"

"And fifth," Lestrade announced angrily, extending his final finger out, "there's someone spying on Sally."

"I–"

"Don't lie to me!" Lestrade's hand banged down on the desk. "Did you really think you could play your tricks on an experienced policewoman, someone who's done surveillance work herself? Sally thought she saw something suspicious on Saturday night, when she was leaving Lauriston Gardens.  Got me to take a look around as well for the last couple of days, and I confirmed it. Big surveillance operation, Mycroft, but some of your men need a refresher course or two."

"I can neither confirm or deny your suspicions," Mycroft said, desperately trying to think what to do. Did he dare say anything about Squid or even Cobra? Or could he perhaps imply...

"I am concerned about Sherlock–" he began.

"Don't try and drag Sherlock into this!" Lestrade snapped. "He and Donovan don’t get on, but that’s old news. And don't claim this is something official, that you have any justification for all of this."

"What do you mean?"

"You're someone big," Lestrade said, "far too big to get involved personally with Sally Donovan, even if she was crooked, which she isn't it. I've seen a lot of investigations of police corruption over the years, but this isn't like any of them. This is bloody weird. So I got to thinking why else you might be doing this, _Mycroft_." The furious tension rising from Lestrade was filling the room, and Mycroft was starting to wish he had a panic button under the desk in _this_ office.

"I don't know what you mean," he protested. Why could he not deal with this, why was his mind turning to jelly?

"Sally Donovan," Lestrade said, "is an attractive young woman, with a certain _reputation_ within CID. Mostly unjustified, but you know how rumours get about. So maybe you thought you could get away with pursuing her, stalking her, Mycroft. Maybe you thought that no-one would worry about what might happen to her. But I do, believe me. So you put a stop to your little games right this instant, or you'll be so deep in the shit you'll never get the stink off."

Cobra was safe, and so was Squid, and the wave of relief was so great that Mycroft shut his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them to see Lestrade's look of utter contempt, and something in him could not endure it, rebelled against so fundamental a lie.

"No," he insisted, "I, I, I admire Sergeant Donovan" – that was true, why had he not realised that before – "but I have no _interest_ in her, not in that way." He had to make it clear to Lestrade, even if it meant exposing himself, a piece of himself. "I feel no sexual desire for her. I am a homosexual and always have been." He ducked his head, instinctively, and felt his stomach knot, the way it always did when he talked about _that_. And then he forced himself to look up, into furious brown eyes.

"You claim you're gay?" Lestrade yelled, his hands gripping the desk as if about to overturn it. "You think you can play that as a get out of jail card free, do you? Get out of my office, you disgusting piece of shit!"

Mycroft's body had already instinctively stood up and started heading for the door, before he remembered.

"Actually, it's _my_ office," he said, rather shakily.

Lestrade was breathing heavily as well, as he stood up. "OK, I'm going," he announced. "But remember. Stay away from Donovan or I will make you pay for it."

He went out, slamming the door.

Jealousy on Lestrade's part, Mycroft wondered, as he sat back unhappily back at his desk. Or simply protectiveness combined with homophobia? He still felt sick, shocked, as if he wanted to cower away in a corner. He mustn't be like that, must he? He was the British government; it didn't matter what one insignificant policeman thought of him. He went off to the cloakroom, washed his face and hands very thoroughly and then went back to tell Diane he had to go off to Geneva for a couple of days.

***

"Are you OK, sir?" Anthea asked when he got back to his real office. "You look a bit ruffled."

"I've just had a rather difficult encounter with DI Lestrade," Mycroft said. "I was not, not expecting his reaction to me."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "I presumed...I mean, you have read the briefing notes about him for Operation Squid, haven't you? It did make things very clear."

He hadn't read the notes, of course, because Squid was all a lie. "Don't worry," he said. "I must have overlooked something. I'll just go and refresh my memory."

"There are some messages you need to answer, as well," Anthea said.

"Later," he said, and retreated into the inner office. He felt tempted to lock the door and never emerge again. What on earth was wrong? Who could he not get on top of this matter? Time to get back to the files perhaps. He wouldn't go wrong with them.

John Cornwell had written this briefing, hadn't he? He recognised the man's style immediately; you could always rely on him to provide a pithy summary of a man's career. He skimmed rapidly through the pages. Working class background, undistinguished school career. Lestrade had only really got his act together in his late twenties, when he finally passed his detective exams. And then the killer paragraph:

 _Lestrade's academic record was undistinguished, but he proved to be an intelligent and skilful investigator and was rapidly promoted to sergeant and then inspector. Officially, the main reason for his failure to progress further is due to doubts about his professional judgement on sensitive cases, doubts exacerbated by his association with Sherlock Holmes from 2005.Reading between the lines, however, the real sticking point is Lestrade's long association with the Lesbian and Gay Police Association. He was a founder member in 1990, and has not been shy of raising complaints about homophobic incidents within the Met. I suspect it is this attitude rather than any personal inadequacies that remains the main obstacle to further promotions._

There would be a section on his personal life, Mycroft thought, flicking through the report, there always was.  He found it, and the usual list of recent sexual contacts. Except that Cornwell's report was scanty:

 _No current relationships identified since late 2008 and break-up with Dr Hans Steiger. Possible occasional sexual encounters with previous partners. No evidence of regular cottaging, attendance at sex clubs, use of commercial sex providers. Blackmail risk can be regarded as low._

Mycroft read the whole report through, just to be sure _._ To check that this competent, attractive, unattached gay man did not have some glaring personal flaw. So, to sum up, for the last however many years, he had been unaware of the existence of this infinitely eligible man, because he'd been too stubborn to take an interest in Sherlock's work. Until now. Unfortunately, following recent events, Lestrade believed that Mycroft was an unscrupulous stalker of young, black women who told lies about his own sexuality. It was...extraordinarily frustrating.

His confidential phone began to ring.

"I've got Jennifer Murchison from IT Angels on the line for you again," Anthea said. "She's been phoning on and off all week, but she won't tell me what it's about it. I presumed she was just touting for business, but she insists she needs to speak with you."

Of course, thought Mycroft, as Anthea put her through, she has the evidence now that implicates Matheson. If I'd got it before I'd met Lestrade, if I'd only looked at his file, if, if, if...Goodness, he was wool-gathering. What mattered now was getting the truth about Operation Cobra and then he could just forget about Operation Squid. A few misjudgements, but no real damage done to the country.

***

"We've found the Cobra leaker," he informed Anthea, a few hours later. "In fact, the Cobra traitor. So Squid can be put to bed, as it were."

"Very good, sir," Anthea replied cheerily. "But Sid Paget will be disappointed. He's just found us a Russian connection.

"What?" Mycroft demanded. Anthea passed her Blackberry over.

"Live feed of Sally Donovan and an unidentified Russian on the South Bank," she said. Mycroft watched as Sally stood by the river near the bookstalls and talked enthusiastically to a tall, dark, beaky-nosed young man.

"Belarusian, not Russian," Mycroft said, after a few sentences of the man's accent, "and judging by his shoes, an illegal immigrant rather than a student." He was a good-looking lad, though, and going by Sally's animation, she was attracted too. "I suppose he's better than Anderson," he added doubtfully.

"Three or four nights of rebound sex," Anthea replied confidently. "Boost her morale and teach him a few lessons."

From the way they were looking at one another, Mycroft suspected it was going to be much sooner than the evening when they ended up in bed together. If they even waited till they could find a bed. Good job that he could call off the surveillance now. Why did people get so carried away by their lust? It turned them into complete fools, however intelligent they were normally.

***

Mycroft settled down to composing the e-mail that would expose Matheson, reveal his deceit in smooth, calm, devastating paragraphs. But a few hours later, as he refined the presentation, tweaked the final few words, the image of Sally Donovan and the Belarusian came back to him. The sheer directness of her gaze at the boy, the honesty of her lust. He remembered that feeling and he suddenly wanted to recapture it: the heat and tension of sitting across from someone and counting down the minutes until you could get them naked.

He looked at his watch. He couldn't send the e-mail this afternoon: it had to reach the Station Chief in Islamabad when Matheson was still safely in Washington tucked up in his bed – or somebody else's. The best time to send it would be seven a.m. tomorrow and that would also give him a chance to double-check the tone of it. Which meant that he probably didn't need to do any further work this evening.  He phoned a number that even Anthea didn't know.

"Is anyone available for tonight?" he asked the helpful, understanding voice at the other end. "I know it's short notice..."

"I don't think you've met Mark Ryan before, have you?" the reply came. "He joined our agency a few weeks ago. Mid-twenties, very presentable. Where would you like him to meet you?"

***

Mark was tall and slender, with a blond crew-cut, and a gentle, slightly dreamy air. He sat in the restaurant and made inoffensive, intelligent conversation about a recent trip to Belfast and the advantages and disadvantages of e-book readers. A postgraduate student, Mycroft deduced, and something in his suit and his manner suggested Victorian constitutional history. London was more expensive than he'd expected, or was it that his parents were being unhelpful about a few unexpected bills? Still a bit nervous about becoming an escort to pay for his studies, but with a natural talent for quiet sensuality. He knew already how to gaze into a client's eyes admiringly and listen to their woes, while playing with his wineglass with one long, well-shaped hand. Concentrate on those hands, Mycroft thought, what they might do. Don't get distracted by the thought of a chunkier hand banging on a table to emphasize Lestrade's fury, and those deep brown eyes, and...

"What would you like to do after we're through here?" Mark asked, as he followed Mycroft in ordering coffee but no dessert.

 _Get drunk and tell you about Operation Squid_ , Mycroft thought. _Get you drunk and have you tell me about yourself. What you care about, who you care about and why you're prepared to spend your evening with a boring civil servant._

"I'm not sure," he muttered, as he drained his own wineglass, and his mind raced through ever more implausible scenarios. _Take you to the toilets right now and have you fuck me. See if you know where to get some drugs for us both. Set you up in a flat and fund your studies if you give up being an escort and stay with me forever. Let me lie in your arms naked and describe to you what it's like to be a spy, and have you tell me that it doesn't matter if I wreck people's lives because I'm serving my country._

"If there's anything _unusual_ you want," Mark said, "I know a very discreet hotel. And I've brought a few toys along." He was smiling slightly nervously, boyishly, at Mycroft. A nice young man with a single smart suit and a briefcase full of sex toys. _How do I tell him that what I really want is a burly detective with greying hair and a grumpy attitude?_

Still, that was the point, wasn't it? Mycroft Holmes from the BIS didn't have to tell Mark Ryan from the extremely discreet agency anything at all. And he'd paid up front...

"I think I'm a bit tired, actually," Mycroft announced, "Been in meetings all day. And I've got to get into the office early tomorrow, for some important business. So we might leave things for tonight."

"Of course," Mark said cheerfully. "But if you want to get in contact again, please do so. It was a pleasure to meet you sir, and thank you for the meal." He got up and shook hands with Mycroft – a carefully controlled handshake, firm, but not too firm – and left. Back to his own lover, Mycroft thought, or his books, or to wander through London, enjoying himself. _I could find out who you really are, Mark Ryan, and what makes you tick, if I wanted to. I could know your life. Understand it. Ruin it._

 _I am getting morbid_ , he thought, as the waiter brought the bill. Still, tomorrow he could put Operation Squid to bed, and get back on an even keel.

 **Thursday 4 th February 2010**

Mycroft got to the office early, rechecked his draft e-mail and then sent the evidence of Matheson's misdemeanours off to a dozen inboxes across the globe. He smiled a slightly smug smile. All that remained was to tidy up a few loose ends. Above all, he owed one person an apology.

He trusted he was right about where he'd find Sally Donovan, because he didn't want to get Surveillance involved in the business. He had a good idea of her routine now, but it was always possible that she might have changed it. When he reached the dingy cafe, though, she was already inside, having breakfast. As usual, he envied her the metabolic rate that allowed her to do so.

"I thought Greg warned you off," Sally announced, as Mycroft gingerly sat down opposite her. He hoped she wasn't going to start throwing things at him, but instead she merely scowled at him for a moment and then returned to her fry-up. He felt oddly uncertain how to start the conversation, and he ended up just sitting there in silence, watching her eat, waiting for her next move.

"Or have you decided to see how common people live?" she asked, a few mouthfuls later. "They do a mean bacon sarnie here, by the way."

"No thank you," Mycroft said. "Although the coffee does smell good."

"Cheaper than Starbucks, as well," Sally said, and looked up at him fiercely. "Look, I've got to be at work in twenty minutes, so can you cut the meaningful silence crap and tell me why you're still stalking me?"

"I'm not," Mycroft said. "I've called my people off. And I must apologise for the whole thing. You...you were a decoy. A smokescreen to conceal where my real interests lay."

"Oh," Sally said, looking curiously up at him, as she took a long swig of her coffee, and then she smiled unexpectedly. "So, did you get your man?"

Maybe it was the Belarusian boy that had cheered her up, he thought, she seemed so much more approachable today.

"Not quite yet," he said, "but it can't be long now."

She smiled again, and then said, "No hard feelings then, and good luck." She paused and then added: "I asked Sherlock about you, after Lestrade found out you were his brother."

"Did you?" Mycroft could hear the haughtiness creeping back into his own voice in those two syllables.

"Yes," she said firmly. "He said you were a patronising git with a devious mind. I reckon there must be some good in a man who can get up Sherlock's nose that much. Was he a pain as a kid?"

"Appalling," he said, smiling back at her. Sally had almost finished her plateful now. He was impressed, if a little alarmed, at her...appetite. He hoped the Belarusian knew what he was getting himself into. But he couldn't just leave the situation like this, he suddenly decided. He had to offer her something in recompense.

"You know, Ms Donovan–"

"Call me Sally," she said. "Seems appropriate, given how well you know me."

"Sally, if you were ever interested in changing jobs, the Service is always looking for good people."

She looked at him curiously for a moment and then asked, "You just trying to up your diversity statistics?"

"No," he said. "You're bright, brave, level-headed. You don't have the temperament for a desk job – you struggle with your paperwork – but we have jobs out in the field you might find interesting. Challenging."

He could tell from the way she fumbled with her fork that she was going to turn him down. And then he watched as something occurred to her. She had a plan, the quick flick of her eyes over his face told him.

"You know all about me, don't you?" she said. "You've been watching me, listening to me."

He nodded.

"So maybe you should tell me a bit more about yourself," she said. "Show you trust me."

She wanted to level up the power imbalance a bit, did she, get some juicy nugget of information about him she might use as a potential weapon? Sensible course of action, obviously.

"What do you want to know?" he said smiling. "I can't guarantee to answer, of course."

"What do you do in your spare time?" she asked.

"That's not the question I expected."

"You learn a lot from people's hobbies," she said. "And it's not top-secret information, surely, if you spend your weekends in the Ministry of Sound or paintballing."

"I'm afraid I'm far more predictable than that," he said. "I have to work most weekends, but when I have free time it's normally either concerts – classical music – or, far too rarely, theatre or the cinema. Very middle class, I'm sure you'd say."

"What film stars do you like?"

"Antonio Banderas, Daniel Day-Lewis, Colin Firth. Ian McKellen, of course..."

"What about actresses?" She smiled her cat-like grin up at him. "Or don't you go for women?"

He was slipping: either Sherlock or Lestrade had told her he was gay.

"Barbara Stanwyck," he said firmly. He saw Sally trying to place the name.

"Oh yeah," she said at last. "She was in westerns, wasn't she? Why her?"

"She was a _woman_ , not those bland girls they put on the screen nowadays. Intelligent, passionate. Liable to double-cross you, of course, but there's something appealing in that as well."

She was grinning openly at him now, at the tiny revelation. Think of it as a trade, Mycroft told himself, just enough to pique her interest, to show he wasn't just a grey man in a greyer suit.

"I need to think," Sally said. "I don't...I'm not sure if what you’re after is feasible. But, if I want to get back into contact with you, how do I do it?"

"I'll give you Anthea's contact details," Mycroft said. "My PA."

"You trust her?"

"Yes," Mycroft said. "You can talk freely to her."

"OK," she said. "I think maybe you do need my help. I'll get back to you, but I gotta go now." She scrambled up, shook his hand, and left.

 **Friday 12 th February 2010**

Mycroft was surprised that Sally had requested another meeting, but the cover story was impeccable: a screening of _Double Indemnity_ at the BFI. He wondered if that was her idea or Anthea's. He just hoped Sally wasn't going to try to recruit him into murdering someone for her. Unless it was Anderson, of course, which would be tempting.

He was only just in time for the screening – the Italians being difficult, as usual – and he slipped into the cinema already slightly flustered. Then he had to push past half a row of mildly-aggrieved middle-class people in semi-darkness to get to his seat. It was only when he had sat down that he turned to his left. And saw, not Sally Donovan in the seat beside him, but DI Lestrade.

Lestrade, leant across and opened his mouth – _he's going to arrest me, but for what?_ – and whispered rather warily: "I was starting to think you weren't going to come, that this was some kind of weird joke on Sally's part."

Mycroft's mind had now seized up completely. Lestrade here, not Sally. Was he...was she...what the blazes was going on?

"Is it always like this, going on a date with a spook?" Lestrade went on, "You don't even approach me directly, you use Donovan as a – what was she called it? – a cut-out , a go-between. I was half expecting you to insist I had to greet you with a password."

It was absolutely imperative, Mycroft decided, that he confirmed his position before saying anything. He pulled out his phone.

"You can't use that! The film's just about to start," Lestrade protested.

"Confirming my position," Mycroft gabbled, as he frantically texted Anthea: _What is happening?_

"They know where you bloody well are, there's probably half a surveillance team watching this cinema," Lestrade said.

Mycroft's phone vibrated with Anthea's reply: _It's a date. What happens is up to you_. A moment later, a second text appeared: _Sally has better gaydar than her boss. We've had a useful exchange of information._

Operation Cobra, thought Mycroft. Operation Squid. Who had said what to whom and what did everyone know? His hand fumbled on the phone, starting to tap out a message. And then a firm hand came out to clamp over it and the keypad.

"Switch the phone off," Lestrade – Greg – said firmly. Mycroft did so. The hand stayed where it was. He could feel its warmth seeping into his own flesh. He looked round into the darkness, and saw patient, intelligent eyes staring back. You didn't need to grab someone's hand to stop them texting. You certainly didn't need to come to the British Film Institute on a date if you didn't want to. Anthea, Sally, Lestrade – they were all completely wrong about Operation Squid. Or – put it another way – completely right.

He hadn't planned this, but he didn't need to. Somehow everything had fallen into place. He tentatively reached out and put his left arm round Greg's shoulders. Greg relaxed and leant back into his seat against it, and it felt _good_. And then they started to watch together as lust led Walter Neff off the straight and narrow into deception, treachery and death.


End file.
